


polite society

by convexity



Series: Sucking Lemons [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: AU, Cuddling in the back of a car, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grave's colleagues being predatory, M/M, Past Abuse Implied, Protective Original Percival Graves, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, only rated non-con for credence's legal status, referenced abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 16:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14814659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convexity/pseuds/convexity
Summary: Graves takes Credence to a work-related dinner, as is expected of him. Credence is understandably nervous. Graves is apologetic.





	polite society

**Author's Note:**

> Graves acquired Credence as something legally recognized as a bed-slave in order to get him away from the church and his abusive foster mother, though it is not congruous with his political or moral beliefs. Not underage- Credence is 22ish.

The dinner was to be a fairly casual affair, he explained to Credence. One of the men he worked with was hosting it, a congratulatory pat on their own backs for another successful quarter in the books.

“No one will bother you.” Graves told the boy in the car. “It’s customary for me to bring you to something like this at least once. And we've got to keep up appearances.”

Credence was skeptical, but as usual, eager to please. “How should I behave?”

 _Deferential. Like you are property_.

“You know how. Like you always do in public. I'll keep you close to me.”

“Do _they_ have bedslaves?”

“Some do. They’ve brought them before. It’s good form, like I said.”

Credence worried his lower lip between his teeth. His voice was small. “Don’t leave me.”

Graves squeezed Credence’s hand, raised it to his lips and kissed the knuckles.  “Never.”

Upon arrival, Graves and Credence were greeted by a maid and shown past the foyer to the entertainment room. High ceilings boasted a chandelier, hardwood floors were spread with persian carpets. Graves was met by a dozen colleagues, talking in semicircles and holding glasses clinking with ice. Credence pressed himself to Grave's side. He took the boy under a protective arm. His first destination was the liquor cart, where he poured himself a whiskey neat from a crystal decanter and one for Credence with a splash of water to ease the bite. Credence gave Graves a questioning look as he accepted the drink.

“Liquid courage, sweetheart.”

When he downed it, he barely made a face.

Credence attracted looks, either sidelong glances or full, lingering once-overs. Word had spread pretty quickly about the stoic director acquiring a personal slave. Now they could see for themselves it was a boy of twenty- two, who was leaning his head on Grave’s shoulder prettily.

Most of the men here were ten years Grave’s junior and below him in the company. It would be forward to ask any details about the boy. None did, and Graves offered no explanation.

When their host, Mr Brand, told them dinner was served, they shuffled into the large dining room. Graves pulled a chair out for Credence, waiting until he was scooted up to the table to take his seat beside him. He took the boy’s hand under the table, uncaring if anyone noticed. Credence looked sideways at him and Graves winked, earning a little smile.

They made it through three courses, french onion soup with cheese melting to the cups, roast quail with root vegetables, and upside-down cake sporting the new miracle of the canned pineapple as its crown, dotted with bright maraschino cherries.

Credence picked at his food, trying to be polite though Graves knew his appetite was diminished to nothing when he was anxious.

Graves leaned in close. “You’re doing just fine, baby.”

Credence's lips parted at the praise, an almost-smile.

“Do you discipline him?”

Graves looked up to see Sylvester Brand, their host, narrowing his eyes at him from the other side of the table. Brand was conservative, the chief financial officer of the branch, a job that was soon to be handed down to his equally conservative son. Brand was ornery and staunchly old-fashioned, with hair long gone white as bone, but sharp-tongued as ever. He peered at the two of them with disapproval, gnarled hand clasping a rocks glass.

“Of course,” Graves answered cooly, though he’d never raised hand nor voice to the boy. “When appropriate.”

Two of his younger colleagues who'd been lounging over the remains of their dinner turned in interest like bored jackals. If Credence felt their gazes he did not raise his head to check. The moment Brand had spoken Credence’s eyes had gone to his lap, posture stiffening.

Brand grunted. “So what is it? Switch? Belt? Cane?”  
Graves held Credence’s hand tighter. It had begun to tremble. He fought to keep the annoyance out of his voice.  
“No,” He waved a hand dismissively, “He’s a good boy. An open hand does the trick just fine.”  
“Open hand,” parroted one of the younger men, Holloway or Harroway, from New Jersey. “Sounds like you, Director. No bullshit.” An eager smile, elbows on the table. _Kiss-ass. Nouveau riche._

“You can’t go easy on him just because he’s pretty, Graves.” Brand persisted. He was like a dog with a bone, had never let anything go in his life. “Sweet or no, a switch’ll keep him humble.”

With his free hand Graves reached for his drink, downed it in one swig. Credence’s hand had gone clammy, his shoulders tight. He wasn’t the one who needed a lesson in humility.

Graves exhaled the strong bite of whiskey. “Yeah, don’t let it keep you up at night, Sylvester.”

The jackals grinned into their drinks. If Sylvester had registered the slight, he didn’t show it.  
“Excuse us for a moment, gentlemen,” Graves said, scooting his chair back as he stood. He led Credence from the room.  
“Aw, Graves, you can leave him! We’ll watch him!” Someone called after in jest, inciting a small ripple of laughter. Poor taste, Graves thought. He hated for Credence to hear it.

The bathroom on this floor was down the hall, past the swinging galley door of the kitchen. Graves remembered the layout from another dinner he’d attended, a wedding reception that felt like a lifetime ago. He pulled Credence in, pulled the beaded string to click on the light.

  
He took Credence in his arms, gently, with very little pressure. It was only a moment before he felt Credence’s arms go around his back. He caught their reflection in the mirror above the porcelain sink. Credence looked small folded into Graves, his head tucked into his shoulder. Grave’s thought his own face looked a little tired, the grey at his temples more pronounced in this light.

Credence pulled away to peer up into Grave’s face. “None of them can touch me, right?”

Grave’s heart tugged painfully.

“No.”

“Not even Mr Brand? It’s his house.”

“It’s his house but you…” Graves hesitated. _You are mine._ He never liked to remind Credence that his situation was legally binding, inescapable, without consent.

“I’m yours.” Credence breathed, closing his eyes. There was no bitterness in his voice. Only relief.

“You’re mine.” Graves affirmed.

“I’m glad it’s you. I wouldn’t want to be any of theirs.”

Satisfaction warmed Grave’s belly like bourbon. He reached out to smooth Credence’s dark hair.

“I need to show my face back there for ten more minutes. Shake some hands. And then I’m going to take you home.” Credence leaned into his touch.

“Put you in my bed.”

Credence shoulders were relaxed again, eyes soft.

“Will you do the thing?” He nodded to indicate his own hands, which he liked gently massaged ad infinitum when he was drowsy in Grave’s bed.

  
Graves felt his smile widen as he led them out of the bathroom. “Of course.”

He was surprised to find a man reaching for the handle on the other side of the door.

“Apologies.”

The man stepped back to allow Graves and Credence to step into the hallway.

“Mr Harris. I saw you at the other end of the table, but it seemed impolite to yell.” Graves held out a hand. Harris was a tall, lean man ten years Grave’s senior. He’d never worked closely with Harris, but had seen him come in periodically and talk to Brand and other members of senior management.

He still bore the posture of a military officer, though he never boasted about his medals, the purple heart he was rumored to have, never talked about the war at all. Age had not diminished his presence, but only deepened the lines around his light eyes. Graves got the strange impression he was talking to the town sheriff when he spoke to the man, and Brand and all the rest were just the rowdy drunks in the saloon.

“You look well, Percival. I admit I was surprised to see your… company.” His gaze roved over Grave’s shoulder to land on Credence. Graves heard the judgement in Harris’s voice, leaving him to grasp at straws what the man’s political or moral stance might be.

“I find it a consolation that someone this side of the Mississippi was still unaware.”

“At least tell me you don’t actually strike this poor thing.” Distaste crossed Harris's features. 

So he’d heard him lie to Sylvester Brand. A necessary evil, to deflect even more unwanted attention from his conservative host.

“I don’t, no.” Graves admitted. “Credence’s situation was complicated. I consider myself his guardian.”

“Good to hear.”

Harris stepped forward and reached the tip of his finger under Credence’s chin, tilting the boy’s head upward. Credence met his gaze head on, still as a deer.  
“If I thought it was otherwise, I was going to make a generous offer for you this very evening.” Credence swallowed, but his gaze never wavered. Before Graves could get over his own indignation, Harris removed his hand. He smiled, almost sadly, and reached into his breast pocket, producing a sleek business card which he extended to Credence between two fingers. Credence looked to Graves. He granted the boy permission to accept with a nod. “If you ever need anything at all. Don’t hesitate to contact me.” Harris told Credence with a sincerity that hung in the air like smoke.

Graves shifted his weight. “Goodnight, Mr Harris.”

“Evening, Percival. I’ll be in the office this week, I’m sure we’ll run into each other. Credence, pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s mine, sir.” Credence said quietly, holding the business card in his hand.

Graves held out a hand for Credence, led him back toward the din of the dining room.

True to his word, Graves shook some hands and said his formalities, and they made their way to the front again, through voices and laughter and cigarette smoke into the cool evening air.

The driver pulled the car around, and Graves opened the door for Credence. He climbed in after, barely shutting the door before Credence was leaning on him like his limbs had turned to jelly.

“It’s over.” Graves said, swinging Credence’s knees over his lap. “You did so well, sweetheart.”

Credence lifted himself over Grave’s thigh and slotted himself sidesaddle in between his spread legs. He laid his head on Grave’s chest.

“I’m so proud of you.” Graves said into Credence’s dark hair, arms wrapping around him.

“I’m sorry.” Credence said.

Graves knew Credence was wont to throw out blanket apologies, making sorry a state of being rather than a direct sentiment.

“Don’t be. It shouldn’t have been such a goddamn lions den back there.”

“Mr Brand made me nervous.”

"Good instincts.”

“I thought maybe because it was his house...He could… I don’t know, do something.”

 _Do something to me_ , Graves understood. “No,” He assured him again, running his hands up into Credence’s hair and scratching his scalp gently.

Credence was silent for a moment. He sat up, pulling Harris’s business card from his pocket. He offered it to Graves on his palm.

He made no move to confiscate it. “He wanted you to keep it, I think.”

Credence’ hand didn’t move.

“He said he wanted to make an offer for me…”

Graves nodded. “I think he was genuinely concerned for your wellbeing. I’m not opposed to you having it.”

Credence’s hand closed reluctantly over the little rectangle of paper. Grave’s pride glowed at Credence’s loyalty, but he also liked the thought of Credence having allies, someone with wealth and influence who would help him if for some reason he found himself alone.

Credence lay his head back on Grave’s shoulder. Graves kissed his hair. “My baby.” He whispered into it, rubbing Credence’s side and eliciting contented noises for the remainder of the ride home.


End file.
